on the waves of the wind
piloted the dotted sails of
an early monarch hued from
the yawn of the morning
concurrently harbinger and
psychopomp of summer
slumber. too early, too early,
I tell her, the moon has not yet
rolled back the tide but
the waves of the wind cease no
more than waves of
dappled foaming green
and the monarch, though
new to these waters
knows well her job
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